You are here
A desolate window ablaze with
twenty red lights is all this home has.
Still path slips away; body gives away;
you return to a forlorn Christmas.
Beeps wait at the answering machine
programmed to accept; not to respond.
Twenty red lights is all you have from
the last year’s bash. Numb hands pour a drink.
An eddy of warmth as false as cards,
as false as words you have sent, received.
Greetings; old chairs, sofas, utensils!
Greetings; a pitiful large bed, unmade!
by Kushal Poddar